


A Collection of Christmas Tales

by defying3reason



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter explores a Christmas memory from one of the main characters of my fic-verse.</p><p>1: Seven year old Grantaire visits his mother at the hospital on Christmas Eve<br/>2: Twelve year old Enjolras experiences a dramatic holiday concert at his middle school<br/>3: Valjean collects Cosette from the Thenardiers, giving her the best Christmas of her life<br/>4: Marius learns that story and feels pressured and inadequate<br/>5: Courfeyrac struggles to create family traditions for his son<br/>6: Feuilly goes from a single-guy-with-no-family Christmas to a fiance-with-more-family-than-he-can-handle Christmas<br/>7: Jehan persuades Enjolras to decorate his freshman dorm room for Christmas<br/>8: Combeferre and Azelma spend their first Christmas as a couple<br/>9: Joly's stuck working an unexpected double on Christmas thanks to a blizzard<br/>10: How Bossuet got to the nursing home during said blizzard to bring his boyfriend some Christmas cheer<br/>11: Bahorel and Grantaire drink far more eggnog than they intended, in that the rum still had a vague aftertaste of eggnog<br/>12: Eponine's best and worst Christmas memories</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter the First: Hark! The Herald Angels Sing/Gloria (In Excelsis Deo)

**Author's Note:**

> My original plan was to write 12 little ficlets well in advance and then post them one day at a time leading up to Christmas. Then my coworker quit and I started working six to seven days a week and my time management went to absolute shit. So these are going to be posted as I complete them, with no special or otherwise festive plan involved.
> 
> Also, each chapter is titled with a song from the Christmas playlist I made for this year.

“Grantaire? _Grantaire_!? Where are you, you little beast!”

“Huh?” Grantaire had half his body stuck in the kitchen cabinet where his dad kept the snacks, when he remembered to go food shopping anyway, but he scurried back out in response to his sister’s yells.

Jacqui stomped her way into the kitchen and towered over her seven year old brother with her hands placed on her hips, an imperious look on her face. Considering their parents were completely unreliable (their mother was in a nuthouse and their father was a negligent at best, abusive at worst alcoholic), the twelve year old was de facto head of their household.

“What are you doing crawling around on your knees? You’re going to ruin your only pair of fancy-you’re not wearing the outfit I laid out for you. Why not?”

“Because it was dorky and the sweater made me itch.”

“It doesn’t matter if the sweater made you itch! You can just wear a turtleneck underneath it then. You need to look nice tonight, Grantaire. Or, as nice as you’re capable of looking.” She licked her thumb and then started wiping at his face while he tried to squirm away from her. “We’re going to see Mom tonight, and then we’re going to Dad’s friend’s house for a Christmas party. You can’t be a little shit tonight.”

He’d forgotten about the party, which was why he’d been scrounging through the cabinets to begin with. If someone else was feeding them then he probably didn’t need to fill up on the discount cheese curls he'd found.

“Will you stop covering my face with spit? It’s kinda weird.”

“Shut up. If you washed your face I wouldn’t have to make it all spitty. Now go change into the nice clothes. You can’t wear that to see Mom.”

Grantaire looked down at the hand-me-down Boyz II Men t-shirt he’d inherited from Jacqui (he still didn’t understand who Boyz II Men were or why the kids at school were laughing at him for wearing the shirt) then back up at Jacqui. “I’ve worn this to the hospital before.”

“But not on Christmas Eve, dingus. Now go get changed. I picked out your clothes and everything. Jeeze, why are you being such a dweeb? It’s like you’re being stupid on purpose.”

“Nah, you’ll be able to tell when I’m doing it on purpose.” But Grantaire still dutifully shuffled off towards the bedroom to change into the dork clothes Jacqui had picked out for him.

The siblings shared a small half-bedroom that was probably supposed to be a home office or something of the sort. Their father had stumbled through the cheap shutter-style door a couple months ago when he’d been slurring at Grantaire about the Legos he’d left out in the living room, so for the moment they had a shower curtain duct taped to the frame instead of an actual door. Grantaire shoved the curtain aside and once more contemplated the seriously itchy and ugly sweater waiting for him on his sister’s bed (he slept on a cot they kept folded up during the day to give them more room).

Grantaire met his sister in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, wearing a pair of her old leggings, his one pair of dress shoes, and one of their father’s work shirts. “Is this okay? Um…” Since Jacqui had fallen off of her chair because she was laughing that hard, he assumed it was not.

By the time Ray got home from work Jacqui had managed to wrestle her brother into a clean pair of jeans and a green turtleneck, which was still dorky and uncomfortable, but much better than the sweater. She was wearing a black dress with a green headband and green tights, so in her opinion they matched. She really wanted her father to change into a nice, collared green shirt she’d picked out for him, but she also wasn’t going to be as insistent with him as she was with the seven year old.

Ray ignored the clothes helpfully laid out on his bed and remained in his work clothes: ripped jeans and a grey long sleeved tee with his company’s logo on it. “You kids ready to go? You have your presents for your mom, right?”

“Uh…”

“Of course we do, Daddy,” Jacqui said, smiling sweetly for effect.

Ray squinted at her, trying to remember if he’d given them any cash to go Christmas shopping or not. Ultimately, he shrugged it off and herded them out to their car.

The kids both automatically went for the backseat. The front passenger was reserved for their mother, even though Lucette had spent the better part of the last ten years institutionalized and rarely got the honor of riding in her spot. As soon as Ray was distracted by the carols playing on one of the classic rock stations Grantaire hissed a terrified whisper to Jacqui. “I don’t have a present for Mom. I forgot.”

“It’s okay, dingus. I assumed you would. You got her a mug that says ‘World’s Best Mom’ on it.”

“But she’s not the world’s best mom. I never see her. She actually really sucks at being a mo-ow! Dad, Jacqui hit me!”

“Did you deserve it?” Ray growled.

“Yes!” Jacqui said. “He insulted Mom. Plus he said sucks.”

“So? You both say sucks all the time.”

“Yeah, but we’re bigger than you, dingus.”

Ray blindly reached into the backseat and took a swipe in the general direction of his son. Grantaire ducked just in case. Ray probably couldn’t smack him while he was driving, but he’d yanked his hair before. “Watch what you say about your mother. The woman’s a saint and deserves better than a foul mouthed little shit for a son. You got that, Grantaire? It’s Christmas fucking Eve. Don’t screw it up for her.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and mimicked his dad’s words back to him. Everything was about his stupid mother.

The drive to the hospital took forever, or so it seemed to a fidgety seven year old. He was rewarded for his patience with two hours of monotony in an uncomfortably warm hospital that smelled faintly but insistently of human waste.

Lucette was in the rec room when they got there. She was sitting at a big table with a bunch of the other patients signing Christmas cards while one of the employees watched, as they all had to be supervised when they used pens. She immediately stopped what she was doing and raced across the room when she spotted her family.

Ray held out his arms, ready to embrace his wife, but she nudged past him and descended on Grantaire. “Honey, you came for a visit! Oh, I just knew you would. It’s so close to Christmas and you always see me at least once before Christmas.” She kissed both his cheeks, then stood up and hugged her waiting husband. “Ray, darling, thank you so much for bringing the kids.” She let out a shrill giggle when he lifted her up and twirled her around, sending her wild black hair streaming out behind her before setting her gently on her slipper-socked feet. Finally, Lucette acknowledged her firstborn. “Hello, Jacqui. Sweetheart, you look so pretty in that dress. Be careful, or the boys are going to come calling and when they do they’re impossible to get rid of.”

Jacqui’s face turned bright red and she forced a laugh at her mother’s awful joke. The chubby, pimply sixth grader did homework for boys in her class in exchange for dates to her school dances. She hadn’t inherited any of her mother’s beauties, just her severely pointed chin and pale skin.

Grantaire was the spitting image of Lucette, though at seven it was hard to tell if that was going to work out as well for him as it had for the fey-like woman.

Lucette ran over to the table to excuse herself from the activity, gathered up the cards she’d filled out, and then herded her family towards her room. Ray grabbed a couple of extra chairs on his way out so they’d all have a place to sit once they got into the cramped little single room.

Grantaire spent most of the visit perched on Lucette’s lap while she carded her skeletal fingers through his hair. She seemed to think he’d shrunk back down to three years old, which happened sometimes. One time when they’d visited she’d thought he still needed his diaper changed, and another time she was freaked out because Ray hadn’t taught him how to shave yet. Sometimes she didn’t recognize him at all, which really bothered his dad, but secretly those times were Grantaire’s favorites.

The Christmas cards were for them, which Grantaire kind of figured because his mom didn’t have anyone else to send a Christmas card to unless you counted the church, which he didn’t. She'd also been stockpiling desserts to give to her children as presents.

The kids fearfully assessed the puddings, cookies, and long-melted ice creams Lucette took out of her dresser, trying to judge how old they might be and whether they’d get sick if Ray forced them to actually eat the stuff. They had a rule about eating anything their mom gave them, but for the sake of Lucette’s feelings, Ray often bullied them into breaking it unless the offered goodies were blatantly dangerous.

It turned out ancient desserts stored in an unrefrigerated and seldom-cleaned drawer with god knows what else didn’t worry Ray. The kids had to eat at least a bite of each of the desserts, smiling as they did so.

Grantaire almost gagged when he ate the pudding, but he managed to keep his discount cheese curls from making a reappearance. That is, until they got out to the car. He and Jacqui both threw up on the curb before they climbed into the backseat.

“Babies, both of you. That was your mom trying to be thoughtful, you know. She loves sweets. She went without for over a month to try to give you a good Christmas. And you know she had to hide those from the nurses to be able to save them up like that.”

“Yeah, well maybe the nurses ought to be searching Mom’s room. Who knows what else she’s hiding in there?” Jacqui asked. She groaned and clutched her stomach. “Oh man. I was hoping that the green pudding was pistachio, but nope. I don’t think it was supposed to be green, dad.”

“I don’t feel good,” Grantaire moaned.

“Of course you don’t feel good. Mom and Dad just poisoned us.”

“Will you stop being dramatic and get in the fucking car? We’ve still got to make an appearance at that fucking Christmas party before I can go home and pass out. I mean it, Grantaire. Stop puking and get in the car!”

* * *

Even though Ray complained about the party for the length of the drive, saying it was an obligation and that he never should have agreed to go, once they walked through the door his mood changed entirely. He sat down with his drinking buddies at the kitchen table, snagged a beer, and joined in on a card game. Jacqui squeezed her way through the room, twisting to avoid the grabby hands of her father’s friends, and joined the teen daughters hiding in a bedroom upstairs.

Grantaire tried the living room first, but the chain smoking, gossiping wives and girlfriends kept grabbing at him and talking about how darling he looked in his turtleneck, confirming his suspicion that it was nearly as dorky as the sweater. He didn’t like having his hair smoothed down, or being told that he looked like his mom. His mom was a crazy lady, something he was just starting to realize the full significance of. He didn’t want to have anything to do with her if he could help it.

Eventually Grantaire gave up on the living room and followed Jacqui into the bedroom where the girls were listening to the Mariah Carey Christmas CD and talking shrilly about their classmates. He almost fled again, but Jacqui grabbed him and pulled him squirming onto her lap.

“Hey, dingus. You okay?”

“No. I still feel kinda sick and I want to go home. Plus it’s loud and my neck’s all sweaty, and people keep touching me.”

Jacqui frowned. “I feel you on that. I don’t think Dad’s going to be ready to leave for at least a few hours though.” She got the attention of one of the other girls and asked something about the basement. The girl shrugged, then made a vague gesture with her hand.

“Cool. Follow me, squirt.” Jacqui hoisted Grantaire to his feet and poked him until he started walking out of the room and down the hall. They made their perilous way through the kitchen, Jacqui once more skillfully avoiding “playful” pats on the bum, and then down a small door into the basement.

Jacqui dug around in the laundry area and emerged with a large t-shirt from the homeowner’s trip to Disneyworld that she probably could have worn as a dress with few alterations. She yanked off Grantaire’s turtleneck, then forced it over his head. “There. No more sweaty neck.”

“It smells like cigarettes.”

“Yeah, well Mr. Stevens smokes. I think everyone at this party smokes, come to think of it. C’mon, I think they still have a little sofa over here.” She pulled a string, illuminating a nook of the basement by one lonely light bulb, which was just enough to reveal a shabby sofa with funny smelling crocheted blankets flung over it.

Grantaire crawled onto the sofa and Jacqui tucked him in. She turned on a radio and changed it to one of the only stations that wasn’t playing Christmas music, at her brother’s insistence, then sat next to him and stroked his hair in a gentle way that didn’t tug on it. He didn’t mind so much when Jacqui did it.

“Feeling any better, dingus?”

“My gut still hurts, but I don’t think it’s because of Mom’s disgusting gunk anymore.”

“You hungry? What’d you eat today?”

“Uh…gunk, cheese curls, some peanut butter and…um…well, I drank a lot of cola.”

Jacqui rolled her eyes. She went upstairs and returned a moment later with a paper plate full of cheap party food. Sadly, for the siblings the cheese plates and deli platters were the closest thing to a holiday feast either of them were likely to see. They had a frozen pizza sitting in the freezer at home that Jacqui would zap for Christmas dinner, sometime after they’d opened the dollar store junk toys their father had bought them at the absolute last minute.

The best present Grantaire ever got always came from his sister. He was hoping she’d gotten his increasingly less subtle hints about the White Ranger action figure he wanted. She had a paper route now so she could afford an actual toy if she really wanted to spring for it. He knew she wanted her own copy of the Mariah Carey Christmas CD, or at least a tape if she had to settle, but as he had no way of acquiring such a luxury short of stealing his father’s wallet while he was passed out, something he still wasn’t brave enough to try, he’d settled for drawing a picture of her in the stupid Santa dress from the album cover.

Once Grantaire had eaten his fill of turkey and ham sandwiches and sharp cheddar cheese slices he drifted off to sleep in the smelly blankets. He woke up again when his dad was carrying him out to the car, but he forced himself to drift off as soon as his eyes opened. He thought Ray might have kissed him on the forehead and wished him a Merry Christmas when he tucked him into his cot that night, but he was probably dreaming that bit. His dad never said nice things to him, even if visiting Lucette at the hospital made him sentimental and a little sad.

The haul Christmas morning was absolutely pathetic, even by dollar store standards. Grantaire considered telling his dad he’d stopped believing in Santa when he was four, but then the old fear that the presents might actually get worse if Ray thought he didn’t have to try at all made him hold his tongue once more. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to do with neon orange army men and pirated ninja turtle knock off bad guys though. And those fucking crayons. Roseart crayons were _useless_.

Jacqui looked like she was going to cry when she opened the cheap makeup kit Santa had gotten her, and not in the good way. “Uh…I’ll just…put this in my room.”

Ray’s face fell. Apparently he’d been trying with that waxy looking shit.

Grantaire followed Jacqui into their room and took the picture he’d drawn her (with _good_ crayons he’d "borrowed" from school) out of his backpack. “Merry Christmas, Jacqui. I’m sorry it’s not your CD, but it was as close as I could get.”

Jacqui’s smile looked real enough. She tacked the picture up above her bed, where she had pictures of actors she’d ripped out of magazines and a couple of other doodles Grantaire had done that she’d picked out of the trash. Then she hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, dingus. That’s almost as good. Well, no, it’s not nearly as good as a real CD, but it’s thoughtful.”

“Cool. Now what’d you get me?”

Jacqui reached around under her bed and unearthed a present that looked suspiciously like an action figure package wrapped in tissue paper. Grantaire’s eyes lit up, and he almost knocked her over trying to grab the present out of her hands. Laughing, Jacqui scooched back on the bed and watched him open it.

“I can’t believe you got me the-oh, Jacqui.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

He held up the package, looking distraught. “You got me the Pink Ranger.”

“So?”

“So? _So?_ You got me the girl!”

Jacqui wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “Well yeah. That was hard to find, so you know. They don’t sell as many girl action figures as they do boy ones. I wanted to get you one that was special. What’s so bad about that? Don’t you like all the characters on the show?”

Grantaire sighed and dramatically flung himself on the bed. “I wanted the White Ranger. He’s the cool one. He used to be a bad guy when he was the Green Ranger. He’s my favorite.”

“Oh. Um…well, your birthday’s not that far away.”

“It’s _forever_ away. I can’t believe you got me _the girl_.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is a bad thi- _ow_! Dad, Jacqui hit me!”

“He insulted Mom again!”

“I did not! I insulted girls, that’s not the same thi- _ow_! Dad, she’s twisting my arm!”

“Dammit kids, shut the hell up or I’m throwing out all your presents!”

And that’s pretty much how Christmas always went with that household.


	2. Chapter the Second: Christmas Is My Favorite Time Of Year

Enjolras flung his backpack onto one of the hard plastic seats the band sat in during their practices, then scanned the music room, looking for his best friend. It didn’t take him long to find Combeferre; the kid was at least a head taller than the next tallest kid in their grade, plus the ginger hair made him easy to spot in a crowd of artificial blonds and natural brunettes.

He strode confidently towards Combeferre, who initially smiled when he spotted his friend, but Enjolras’ step faltered when Combeferre’s genial features settled into a scowl. “Sometimes I really hate you, Enjolras.”

That wasn’t terribly characteristic for his best friend. Enjolras stared at him in confusion. “Wh-what?”

“How on earth did you manage to look good in our _chorus_ _uniform_? These outfits don’t flatter anyone! It’s bad enough that you’re apparently never going to hit an awkward phase, but this is really too much.”

Enjolras looked down at his outfit and shrugged. Pressed black slacks, a white collared shirt, and a red sweater vest with a gold bow tie didn’t strike him as incredibly difficult to pull off. Though come to think about it, most of the other boys in the room looked a bit silly. Most of them looked like they had love handles thanks to the lumpy sweater vests, and the tightness of the bow tie with the shirt collar was giving quite a few of them double chins.

Combeferre just looked gangly and awkward. He’d had another growth spurt since his mother had ordered the uniform for him, so the shirt sleeves and the pants legs were about an inch too short.

“You’re making a big deal about nothing, ‘Ferre. I can’t help the way I look. For a minute there I thought you were going on about something important.”

Combeferre’s “outrage” had already given way to an amused smile, but he rolled his eyes once more at his friend’s familiar lack-of-vanity. Enjolras had been blessed with incredible wealth and incredible good looks most of their peers would have killed for, and he desired neither, something Combeferre rather liked about the kid.

“Is your family coming to the Christmas concert?” Enjolras asked.

“Of course they are.”

“Right, your family’s normal. What I meant was, how many of them are coming?”

“I don’t know.” Combeferre thought for a second. “Mom and Dad and Gerard at the very least. I think my grandmother might be out there too. And maybe one of my aunts. Are any of your relatives coming?”

“If I’m lucky Dad drove home as soon as he dropped me off. It didn’t look like he was heading towards a parking spot, but you never know with him. He gets these whims like he wants to be an involved and caring parent sometimes.”

“Well, Christmas does crazy things to some people.”

Their conversation was cut short by the chorus teacher, Miss Murray, walking in and calling them to order. She got the kids onto the risers, at which point Enjolras and Combeferre had to part ways because they were arranged by height, putting Combeferre in the way-back. Enjolras took his place on a riser in the middle and immediately found himself the recipient of irritated looks from his fellow tenors. Based on their whispers, they sympathized with Combeferre regarding Enjolras’ ability to be flattered by anything, even geeky choral wear.

Then he was being glared down by their teacher as well. “Alright kids, let’s have one more run through of that Kwanzaa song we had to incorporate at the very last minute. We haven’t had much time to practice it, as you all know, because I didn’t plan on including it for the perfectly valid reason that we don’t have any students at this school who _celebrate_ Kwanzaa-”

“We don’t have any students who’ve _mentioned_ they celebrate Kwanzaa,” Enjolras interrupted. “Which isn’t the same thing. Maybe they just don’t want to call attention to their minority status in an environment that’s almost hostile in its conformity to affluent Judeo-Christian holiday celebrations.”

Combeferre was snickering under his breath. Enjolras didn’t dare turn around to look and confirm it, but he was pretty sure that was his friend laughing. No one else seemed all that amused though, least of all the teacher.

“You’re in the seventh grade, kid. How do you even know those words?”

“Because I like to read…?” Really, he was getting sick of answering that question. He still didn’t have a good response for it and resented adults for asking it.

“Whatever. Okay, first sopranos open on the Kwa, basses get ready to bum-bum-bum your way through this.”

After finishing their token Kwanzaa song they moved on to their token Hanukah song, and then the five familiar Christmas carols they’d been rehearsing since October. Miss Murray yelled at Enjolras at least seven or eight times, complaining that he was too loud and that he needed to make his voice blend in with the other tenors. His chorus teachers had been saying that since kindergarten, but he didn’t know how to fix the problem. Apparently he was just naturally gifted at projecting his voice.

Consequently, he had two solos, one for an arrangement of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and another for O Holy Night. Combeferre had tried out for a solo as well, but he’d been skipped. Enjolras was hoping they’d both get solos for the spring concert. At first he’d been embarrassed about the situation, but Combeferre didn’t seem to mind.

Once they were warmed up and rehearsed, the seventh graders lined up by the door to the stage to wait for the sixth graders to leave the auditorium. They could just hear faintly squeaking voices forcing out an awful arrangement of Jingle Bells mashed up with Deck the Halls, followed by the pitying applause of relatives obligated to be there (and all of them secretly felt that their own performance would be completely different-definitely worth viewing with or without familial obligation).

Once the applause died down the shortest soprano in the class led them out to the risers set up on the stage. Enjolras wound up dead center again, this time with a light shining directly into his eyes. He blinked a few times, then fidgeted until he found an angle to stand at that didn’t blind him.

He scanned the crowd, looking for Combeferre’s parents. The place was pretty packed, but it looked like they’d managed to get some pretty good seats in the front left. He scoffed when he noticed that Combeferre’s little brother was playing a handheld game and not even pretending to pay attention. He wondered if the old lady sitting next to them was Combeferre’s grandmother or not. He’d never met Combeferre’s grandparents.

Their chorus teacher walked out and introduced them as the seventh grade students, then started talking about the history of Kwanzaa as an intro to the first song. Enjolras watched her carefully, nodding in approval as she stuck unerringly to the script he’d written for the grown woman so she could hide her ignorance.

She was just about to sit down in front of the piano when the back door of the auditorium banged open. “Shit, that was loud. Oh shit, I just swore in a friggin’ school.”

Enjolras’ stomach clenched in a horrible way he associated with either the flu or the intense sort of anger that usually ended with him in detention. His mother had just staggered into the auditorium in an open fur coat and a gaudy red cocktail dress. His father was slinking in behind her, trying and failing to look as though they weren’t there together.

Marie gave a small wave. “Sorry everyone. Don’t mind us. Just here to support our son. You can keep going-oh there he is! Hi Enjy. Oh lookit him, Paul! He’s so handsome, even in those ugly school clothes!”

Did she expect him to wave back? Actually, considering her state of intoxication she probably did. Marie was at least three glasses of wine short of the pivot drink, based on the way she was swaying and the lopsided smile she wore.

Paul pulled her out of the aisle, and Miss Murray tried to continue with the concert as though there’d been no interruption, which was probably the safest option. She played a few chords on the piano before Marie’s shrill voice rang out in the auditorium again.

“I don’t care if we’re late! I’m not going to stand for the entire performance! Do you see these heels? You’ve got to be kidding me. They shouldn’t have these stupid things if they don’t have enough seats for all the parents. That’s bullshit! Don’t tell me to shut up! This was your idea anyway. I didn’t even want to come!”

Everyone was staring at him. They were all supposed to be facing front with their arms at their sides, but half the kids in his grade were looking right at him with their mouths hanging open. Enjolras ignored them as best he could and determinedly faced front, though his hands weren’t hanging loosely at his sides like they were supposed to. They were balled into fists so tight that his fingernails were biting into his palms.

“I said let go of me, Paul! You hauled me all the way out here at asshole o’clock for this stupid thing when you know damn well I have better things to do. We are most certainly _not_ leaving until we see our precious little boy sing his little songs!”

“Um, ma’am, if you want to, you can take my seat. My wife and I will stand instead.”

“I don’t need your charity!”

There was a hand on his back. Enjolras flinched. “Enj, are you okay? You’re breathing kind of fast.” It was Combeferre. He’d forced his way down the risers.

Miss Murray turned a concerned look to her students, then at the conflict brewing in the back of the auditorium, and then back towards her students. She lifted her eyebrows at Combeferre and tilted her head towards the door at the side of the stage that went back to the music room. Taking the hint, Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’ arm and yanked him off the stage.

The next thing he knew they were alone in the cavernous music room with just the backpacks and coats and music stands for company. Combeferre sat him in a chair, grabbed his wrist, and forced him to uncurl his fist. He was still shaking.

“Why did she come?” Enjolras snapped. “Why couldn’t she have just stayed home? He didn’t go and park, he went and _got her_. That’s why they were late. She wanted to miss it like she misses all my other concerts and my plays and my presentations and science fairs and games and everything else, so why did she have to come to this one?”

“M-maybe he was trying to help. I mean, you don’t like that she skips all your things,” Combeferre said, hesitant, clearly not sure if he was helping or hurting.

Enjolras rubbed at his eyes and realized he was crying. “That doesn’t mean I want her to come! I want her to be normal, like your parents!”

“I’m sorry, Enjolras.” Combeferre touched his shoulder. “Do you want me to get you some water?”

“N-no.”

“What about some tissues?”

There was snot just waiting to burst from his nose, so reluctantly Enjolras nodded. “Tissues are probably a good idea.”

“Kay. I’ll be right back.”

Combeferre left for the bathroom, and when he got back he had his mom with him. He looked as surprised by her presence as Enjolras was.

Enjolras jumped to his feet, but then he felt silly. “H-hi Genevieve.”

“Hello, Enjolras. I thought you’d like to know that your parents left.” She helped him wipe his face clean with the tissues, then combed his hair for good measure even though he was pretty sure his hair had been untouched by his minor breakdown.

“I spoke with Miss Murray for you. She said you don’t have to go back out if you don’t want to, but since you have some solos she’d like it if you would.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “I think I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Did they sing the Kwanzaa song without us?”

“They’d only just started it when I left. Enjolras, we’re going out for a family dinner after the concert’s over. I was just talking with my husband and my mother, and we thought it’d be nice if you joined us. We can bring you home after we’re finished at the restaurant.”

Enjolras smiled at her, finally starting to regain his composure instead of just faking it. “That’d be nice. Even better, you could skip the bringing me home part and just take me back to your place.”

Genevieve laughed as though it were a joke. “Hurry up, boys, or you’ll miss that Hanukah song too.”

“Right. Thanks, Mom.” Combeferre gave his mother a quick hug, and then the boys hurried back onstage to make their way as unobtrusively as possible back onto the risers.

Enjolras got more applause than any of the other soloists, though he couldn’t tell if it was recognition of talent or just pity. He ticked that off as yet another reason to hate his mother, and marched back to the music room with the rest of the chorus in a foul mood.

Unbeknownst to him, his father had snuck back into the auditorium after forcing Marie to wait in the car and recorded the concert with his new camcorder. He was hoping to show the tape to his wife once she’d sobered up, though he wasn’t holding his breath on the videotaped Enjolras engaging her interest any more than the live one had.

* * *

Enjolras was still emotionally smarting from his humiliation the following week when “Santa” attempted to make up for it with elaborate gifts he hadn’t asked for. He had two new bikes to go with the seven or eight he didn’t use sitting in the garage of house number three, as well as a video game system he’d never heard of, and a shit ton of clothes blatantly selected by his vain, fashion-focused mother.

As far as buying his love went, they were getting worse and worse the older he got. They’d completely ignored his requests for museum memberships and new books.

Enjolras was sulking in his room when Paul knocked on the door. “I’m not coming downstairs!”

Paul walked in anyway. He sat down on the end of the bed, habitually bored gaze fixed on his BlackBerry. “What’s your price this time?”

“Excuse me?”

Paul’s lips quirked ever so slightly. It might have been a smile, but it was hard to tell with the man. “You’re old enough for us to be direct about this, Enjolras. You’re upset, your mother has no idea why, and she won’t stop nagging me until you come down for Christmas dinner wearing one of those expensive new shirts she picked out for you. Now, what will it cost me this year to get your good behavior?”

Enjolras sat up on his elbows. “You’re admitting it? You’re really admitting that you’ve been buying me off every year?”

“As I’ve said, you’re old enough to dispense with any pretenses. What do you want? You’re allowed to bargain this time. I suggest you make the most of it.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “Reinstate Christmas bonuses for the employees that earn hourly wages at your company.”

“No.”

“But Dad-”

“You’re not allowed to sabotage my work. Try again, Enjolras.”

Enjolras flopped back against the mattress and fixed his petulant stare on the ceiling. “I gave you my Christmas list already and you ignored it.”

“I’m not buying you the People’s History of the United States. You’re too young to be reading that socialist horseshit anyway.”

Fine. He’d borrow Combeferre’s copy instead. “What about the museums?”

The negotiations went much more quickly after that. After fifteen minutes, Paul agreed to get his son year-long memberships at two Boston museums and one Salem one on the condition he didn’t have to accompany Enjolras to any exhibits (“Like I’d want you to. I’m going to bring ‘Ferre.”) He also agreed to bring the boys to Washington DC with him in the spring and let them loose in the Smithsonian.

Enjolras suffered through Christmas dinner with a smile that didn’t look as forced as it was, wearing his mother’s clothes and eating their housekeeper’s exquisite cooking. He spent an hour with them in the den, reading a book on Reconstruction while his mother drank, his father worked on his laptop, and they all pretended they were watching a Christmas movie together.

That night Enjolras called Combeferre so he could share his excitement about the trip to DC, trying to ignore the conflicted feeling that arose whenever he lingered too long on the thought that his forgiveness had been purchased.

And, three bedrooms down, Paul watched the video of Enjolras’ concert for at least the eighth or ninth time, marveling again at his son’s talent, composure, and conviction. He was going to do amazing things someday. Unprofitable, no doubt, but amazing nonetheless.


	3. Chapter the Third: The Night Before Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still going to try to get the rest of these out even though Christmas is over. Here is my pathetic attempt to recreate my favorite part of the Brick for my 2013 'verse. I love everything about crazy-pauper-secret-millionaire Valjean rescuing Cosette from the Thenardiers, and I hope this version is at least a smidge as interesting as the canon version. Belated Merry Christmas!

“Will you shut that miserable thing up, or so help me God I’ll take care of it myself!”

“I’m doing my best, but the ugly little shit is _hungry_. There’s not much I can do,” Mrs. Thénardier shouted at her husband. The both of them had to shout to be heard over their tiny son’s roars of displeasure.

Cosette poked her head around the doorway and watched. She knew better than to try and intervene on the toddler’s behalf (her one attempt had resulted in an injury that probably needed stitches she hadn’t gotten; at any rate, it healed funny and left her with a memorable scar along her hairline). Even though she was powerless to help the little boy, she still wanted to look in and see if he was safe.

Thankfully, the bad tempers of the Thénardiers weren’t turned on their son, so focused were they on berating the other for spending the food money. They’d both been just as guilty. Mr. Thénardier had lost almost a full paycheck playing cards with his criminal friends, while Mrs. Thénardier had taken Eponine and Azelma on a lavish shopping trip they certainly couldn’t afford.

Eponine and Azelma were playing with some of the results of the poorly thought out spree on the kitchen floor. They each had enough new dolls, doll clothes, and play sets to keep them busy through New Year’s, even keeping in mind that Eponine went through dolls remarkably quickly. She always ended up cutting their hair off, bending their arms at awkward angles, and then throwing them away when they got too ugly.

Cosette used to have dolls. When she’d lived with her mama she’d had five Barbies and one baby doll. Her favorite had been a holiday Barbie. She’d been so pretty and pale, with light yellow hair, just like her mama. Cosette had carried the doll everywhere, and given it all the best clothes and even washed the doll’s pretty pale hair when she took it in the tub with her.

When she’d been taken away from her mama and sent to live with the Thénardiers, one of the first things Mrs. Thénardier did was go through all of Cosette’s things and give them away to her daughters. That was the first and only time she ever tried to talk back to her new foster mother. It was also the first time an adult ever raised a hand to her.

Her lip had still been bleeding when Mrs. Thénardier picked up her special Barbie, the one that looked like the mama she missed so much she couldn’t breathe right sometimes, and handed it over to Eponine. Cosette ran out of the room as fast as her little legs would carry her, hid in the coat closet, and cried in the dark until Azelma thought to find her.

“Are we playing hide and seek?”

Cosette didn’t know how to answer her. The other little girl frowned. “I don’t think you’re s’posed to cry when you play. Anyway, you should come out soon. If Daddy finds you in here he’ll be mad, and he’s even scarier than Mom somtimes.”

Positively terrified at the idea, Cosette followed Azelma back to the girls’ bedroom, where Eponine was giving her special mama-Barbie a haircut. Cosette cried so hard she threw up. The Thénardier girls found the whole experience terribly off-putting, and so while neither of them were as cruel as their parents, they weren’t nice to Cosette either. They didn’t want to play with her because they associated her with tears and throw up.

They were pretty indifferent about their baby brother too. While Cosette worried about the fact that the little boy hadn’t been fed since lunch time the day before, and his tears were making him a possible target for his father’s wrath, Eponine and Azelma were playing with their dolls without a care in the world.

“Cosette, get in here!” Mrs. Thénardier shouted. Cosette responded immediately, because even though the kitchen was the last place she wanted to go, it was even worse to linger and make Mrs. Thénarider wait. “I need you to run down to the store and get some milk and bread.”

Cosette glanced out the window. It was snowing and she didn’t have a winter coat, or a hat, or mittens or anything. Azelma had all her old winter clothes, and she had a soiled men’s sweatshirt and a worn out pair of sneakers. She wanted to voice an objection to going alone; after all, she was only eight, and when she’d lived with her mother she hadn’t been allowed to go anywhere by herself at night. However, there was no way to question a direct order from Mrs. Thénardier without getting some kind of blow.

Taking Cosette’s hesitance for what it was, Mrs. Thénardier peeled back her lips in a nasty snarl. “Get moving, you little twit! We don’t have enough money for the damn expensive shit, but they won’t care about a dollar and some change if it’s a little girl buying it.” The giantess shoved some crumpled bills into Cosette’s hands. She was used to this ploy.

The Thénardiers never sent her out with enough money to purchase what they needed, but they always expected her to return with everything they asked for. If the salesclerk seemed friendly enough, Cosette tried buying the things honestly (but if they were too friendly she backed off; one time a lady had asked too many questions about her bumps and bruises, and that had scared her terribly). If they seemed suspicious, she waited until the clerk was helping someone else and then stole the things she couldn’t afford.

“Can I wear Zelma’s boots?” Which were actually hers.

“You ungrateful-”

Cosette ran from the room and out the front door without any further hesitation, not even pausing to put on the old, ugly sweatshirt she had to wear instead of a coat. Her mama had sold her last piece of jewelry to buy that coat, and something even more precious she wouldn’t talk about to get Cosette her boots. Cosette didn’t like thinking of her poor mama, who’d worked so hard to make sure she had what she needed. Now those things were all Azelma’s, and Cosette was cold and sore and shivering and her mama had suffered so for nothing.

She ran halfway to the convenience store, convinced Mrs. Thénardier was going to chase her and beat her for her ungratefulness, but thankfully the woman wasn’t so eager to harm the child that she’d go out of her way to do it. Cosette was too scared to run away and too shy to ask for help. She’d come back with the bread and the milk, and Mrs. Thénardier could do as she pleased then.

Cosette felt the cold keenly as soon as she stopped running. She stuck her hands under her armpits and stomped extra hard to try to stay warm.

The first thing Cosette did when she got to the convenience store was assess the man standing behind the register. He looked like an adult to the eight year old, but in reality the young man was much more of a child, and certainly not that invested in his post behind a cash register on Christmas Eve. He barely noticed Cosette walk into the store, and paid much more attention to the magazine in his hands than the shivering stick of a child snatching groceries off his shelf.

Cosette left the money on the register as she left. She liked to be honest when she could, though living with the Thénardiers made that rather difficult. Either way, the cashier didn’t notice.

Walking to the convenience store in the winter weather had been unpleasant enough, but walking home hugging a cold gallon of milk to her chest was infinitely worse. Cosette’s teeth were chattering and her poor little fingers had turned red with the cold. She crouched over to avoid the wind, which was making her eyes water when it got her in the face.

Cosette reminded herself that it was a short walk, and soon she’d be back at the Thénardiers' house, which wasn’t actually as comforting a thought as she’d been trying for. It’d be warmer, because there was no wind, but no one had paid the heating bill and she didn’t have good clothes, so she was still going to be cold. And besides that, while she was walking outside there was no one to beat her.

There was no one to protect her either though, something that occurred to her for the first time when a car pulled up next to her on the curb. Cosette stopped where she was and gazed at the strange vehicle in terror. She’d had a strong sense of stranger-danger drilled into her by Mr. Thénardier, who’d warned her never to strike up conversations with any adults, and to never answer any questions they might have for her. Bad things would happen if she told strangers about her bruises, or the scar on her hairline, or the little boy who cried because he never got food.

The car door opened and a man got out. He was the tallest man Cosette had ever seen, much taller than Mr. Thénardier, though perhaps not very much taller than Mrs. Thénardier. Being a short little thing, even for an eight year old, Cosette had to take a step back and look as high as she could to see his face.

It wasn’t a very friendly looking face. It was a tired, worn looking face and his hair was all white. His grave, careworn expression didn’t match his strong, healthy body at all. And he was wearing the ugliest old coat Cosette had ever seen. It was mustard yellow and looked like a reject from a clothing drive.

“Excuse me miss, but aren’t you cold without a jacket?” On the plus side, his voice was friendly when he addressed her. Still though, strangers were dangerous, especially if they asked questions.

Cosette didn’t like to lie, but she still shook her head.

He crouched down to speak to her, though he still towered over the girl. “You look it. Do you have much farther to walk?” Again, Cosette shook her head. “Would you like a ride?”

Cosette looked at the car, which was old and rusty and at least as junky as the man’s coat. It looked warm though, and she was very cold…

“Okay, I’ll take a ride. But you have to drop me off at the corner just behind my house. Muh-Mister and Missus don’t like me talking to strangers, so they won’t like seeing that I’ve gotten a ride.”

“That’s very sensible,” the man said. “In most cases, you shouldn’t get rides with strangers. But it’s a very cold night to be walking, especially alone.” The man took the gallon of milk from her and then helped her up into the passenger seat of his car. “Where am I taking you, miss?”

Cosette told him the address and his expression turned funny. One second he looked almost excited, then he looked like he had a tummy ache, and then he just looked sad. “Is your name Euphrasie?”

Cosette scrunched up her face in dislike and shook her head. “Nope. I mean, it’s s’posed to be, but it’s ugly so Mama calls me Cosette instead.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten. On the paperwork it says Euphrasie…Well, my child, it so happens that we are going to the same place. I need to have a few words with the mister and missus.”

Cosette couldn’t imagine what kind of business the man had with her foster parents. Plenty of people came to see them with business, of course, but nobody kind enough to carry a heavy gallon of milk for you.

The man parked around the corner from the house and let Cosette get a five minute’s head start to the house so she wouldn’t get in trouble. She slipped into the house as quietly as possible, put the milk in the fridge, the bread on the table, then disappeared into the living room to wait. She had a spot under the small table by the window where she liked to hide. She was mostly out of sight, but she could see what was going on, and if she craned her neck just right she could even watch TV (though Mr. Thénardier rarely put on anything worth watching).

Five minutes later there was a heavy knock on the front door. With an overburdened air, Mrs. Thénardier stomped off to answer it. She barked an unseasonable, “what” at the guest, then sneered when she took in his shabby clothes and aged face.

The nice old man, who didn’t look nearly as nice as Cosette knew him to be, asked to speak to the woman and her husband. Mrs. Thénardier crossed her almost unnaturally muscular arms over her chest and eyed him suspiciously. “It’s Christmas Eve. Care to explain what you’re barging in here for?”

The man glanced past her, no doubt taking in the squalor of the house and the absolute lack of holiday festivities going on, and shot her a pointed look. Scowling, she stepped aside and let him in.

The adults went down to the cellar, what Mr. Thénardier liked to call his office, leaving behind three terribly curious little girls and a rather indifferent and hungry little boy.

“What’s that all about? Daddy never sees people on Christmas Eve.”

“It must be about money,” Eponine said sagely. “Hey, Lark!”

Cosette ran into the kitchen as fast as her little legs could carry her. Eponine was generally indifferent about her, but she liked attention and she readily tattled, even if she had to make something up to tattle about. Hard experience had taught Cosette to treat her foster sister with caution and obey her whims.

“Lark, you were just out. Did you see that weird looking guy with the white hair while you were walking?” Eponine asked.

“I saw him. I don’t know why he’s here though. Um, I brought the bread and milk. We should probably make something for your brother, don’t you think?”

“Knock yourself out. Mom gave us Christmas cookies and cocoa so we’re all set,” Eponine said, showing her usual, copied disregard for her youngest sibling. Her mother resented the boy’s existence, caring only for the little girls she could dress in bows and frills and spoil rotten. Three children, she seemed to think, was one too many, and four unthinkable. As she reminded the children constantly, if Cosette didn’t get them a monthly stipend check then she’d have been out the door.

Cosette knew all too well how awful it felt to be hungry, and sympathized with the boy who was always ignored, so while Eponine and Azelma ate their cookies and tried to listen by the crack in the door that went to the basement, Cosette climbed up on a kitchen chair and cooked some macaroni and cheese with the milk she’d just stolen.

The little boy didn’t say anything, but he ate ravenously and when he was finished he smiled at Cosette. She’d never heard him talk and he still wore diapers even though he was big enough to be potty trained. His parents were pretty obviously neglecting him, but his sisters avoided him principally because he always smelled so bad.

Cosette didn’t mind the smell. She rather liked the little boy. Even though he didn’t speak, he still managed to be funny. Sometimes he mimicked the way his father talked with silly, exaggeratedly angry noises, and he seemed to be the only person who could get Eponine into trouble. The boy cried so loudly that Mrs. Thénardier rejoiced every time she could get him to lie down for a nap, and if anyone woke him up, even Eponine, they’d get a thump on the head.

Cosette was pretty sure the boy pretended to be asleep sometimes when he wasn’t, and only started crying when Eponine said something loudly just so she’d get a thump.

Cosette liked to pretend the little boy was a doll. He wasn’t quite as much fun as the ones Mrs. Thénardier had stolen from her, on account of the smell, but he was much more interesting. She wiped his face off after he finished eating, then wrapped him in her soiled sweatshirt like it was a blanket and sat with him on the couch, crooning broken little lullabies her mama used to sing to her when she’d been happy. The little boy leaned against her, and they both ignored the shouting they could hear coming from the basement.

“Boy oh boy, is Daddy getting steamed. I bet something big’s going on.” Eponine came running in from the kitchen, eyes aglow with the excitement only raised voices and the threat of violence could bring.

“You don’t think that big old man’s going to hit anybody, do you? He’s twice as tall as Daddy and almost as big as Mommy,” Azelma said. She twisted the end of her dress, eyes wide and nervous looking.

“The big old man’s not like your parents and their friends. He’s nice. He won’t hit anyone,” Cosette insisted. The girls didn’t look like they believed her.

The little boy made a funny noise that almost sounded like singing. “Oh, he wants me to keep going.”

“Kay. We’ll keep listening by the door, and we’ll tell you if we hear anything,” Azelma promised.

“I don’t think we need to bother with that. Mom’s being so loud that I can hear her perfectly from here,” Eponine pointed out.

She was right, of course. They could hear Mrs. Thénardier wailing about the stipend check clear as day.

Cosette frowned. “Why are they talking about the stipend check? You don’t think this is about me, do you?” She felt a thrill of fear and something else, something she couldn’t name.

Eponine shrugged her shoulders. The suggestion that the fight was about Cosette made it a lot less intriguing. She went back into the kitchen and resumed mutilating her dolls, interest in the stranger entirely lost. Azelma looked between Cosette and Eponine, caught for barely a moment between sitting with her brother and listening to the lullaby or playing with dolls. She opted to return to her game with Eponine, which Cosette preferred.

Maybe it was just because he didn’t speak, but the little boy was the only Thénardier she liked.

Their moment of tranquility was broken by the sound of Mrs. Thénardier barreling up the stairs, slamming the door open with a bang like a gunshot, and charging into the living room in an absolute fury. She yanked Cosette off the couch by her arm, sending the little boy crashing to the floor which immediately set him howling again.

Cosette started crying, wondering what she’d done wrong and how best to deflect the attention from herself. Before she could get her bearings or even begin to form a plan, the man was there and he looked so frightening that Mrs. Thénardier let her go without a word.

Cosette crawled over to the man and hoisted herself to her feet hiding behind his knees. He reached around and put his hand on her head. Feeling an odd sense of strength she’d never had before, Cosette came out from behind him and stood at his side.

“I’m taking the girl and that’s the end of it. She’s going home to be cleaned up, and then she’s going to the hospital to visit her mother.”

“M-mama’s in the hospital?”

The man winced. “I’d hoped to break it to you more gently. My dear, your mother is very sick and it’s important that we go to see her quickly. I won’t show you to her in such a state though. It would break her heart to know what you’ve been through.”

“What did you mean about Cosette going home?” Eponine asked, stepping in from the kitchen. “The Lark lives here. She _is_ home.”

The little boy stopped crying and watched them with interest. He didn’t look terribly fond of the old man.

“This wicked man is stealing the Lark, and what’s more, we’re going to lose our cable because he’s stopping our stipend checks. Say goodbye to Nickelodeon, kids, because this man is the reason you won’t have it anymore!” Mrs. Thénardier yelled.

Eponine walked up to the man and kicked him in the shin. “What did we ever do to you?!”

Taken aback, the man scooped Cosette up and started for the door. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“Wait, wait! Um…it’s just…” Cosette hesitated. She’d been wishing as hard as she could to get away from this awful place from the moment she’d been brought to her foster home, and now that she finally was it seemed foolish to push her luck, but there was something about the man that made her trust him. He wanted to help her with such obvious earnestness that she felt safe asking him for it. “When I came here I had some toys, but, but the missus gave them to Ponine and Zelma. I’d like some of them back, if I could. But not all of them, because Ponine ruined my favorite ones.”

“Did not!” Eponine shrieked.

“Did too! You cut off my Mama-doll’s hair and made her ugly.” Cosette felt tears well in her eyes at the memory. She turned in the man’s strong arms and tried to explain, but her words all ran together. The only intelligible thing she got out was that the doll used to be as pretty as her mother.

The man set her down on her feet, told her to wait, and then went out to his car. Cosette shook with fear, vulnerable and exposed without his protection, and regretting her choice to dare asking for something that had been given to her foster sisters. However, the Thénardiers had never been less interested in the foster child in their lives. They crowded around the front room window together, watching the man with interest.

He returned with a gigantic Toys ‘R Us bag, at least as large as the little boy and almost as tall as Cosette. It was held shut with a large red bow. The man plopped it in front of Cosette, looking uncertain of himself. “I meant to have it wrapped before I gave it to you, but you’ve forced my hand. Merry Christmas, Cosette.”

Tiny fingers shaking, Cosette took off the bow and opened the bag. She slid it down the sides of a box, revealing the most beautiful porcelain doll she’d ever seen in her short life. Every detail about the miniature lady was perfect, from her curled eye lashes to her embroidered gold boots. Cosette longed to get her out of the box so she could touch her crushed velvet dress and feel if her curly red hair was as soft as it looked.

“Oh my. Look at the lady,” Cosette whispered.

Eponine’s eyes were wide with unfiltered avarice. “That’s the most disgustingly unfair thing I’ve ever seen! We’re losing our Nickelodeon and she’s getting the most magnificent doll in the universe? Mother, I want a new doll!”

“Ponine, shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about,” Mrs. Thénardier growled. It was the first time she’d ever threatened her eldest daughter, other than when she woke Gavroche from his naps, and Eponine’s response was instant. She burst into tears and ran from the room, howling about the unfairness of her life.

Meanwhile, the man had helped Cosette free her lady from the box and she hugged her new doll to her chest, smile so wide it hurt. “I’m going to call her Catherine. That’s a good name for a lady, isn’t it?”

The man smiled at her. It looked strange on his face, like he didn’t have much practice with smiles, but Cosette got used to it quickly.

“Excuse me, but are you Santa?” Azelma asked. “If you are, I’d like a doll like that. I can be good for next year if I can have a doll like that.”

The man didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Apparently his goodwill only extended towards Cosette, which she couldn’t say she minded.

“Say goodbye, Cosette. We have much to do tonight.”

Cosette clutched the doll tightly in her arms and turned towards the door. “I’m ready now,” she said, determined not to look back on what was undoubtedly an ugly chapter in her life. With the man at her side, she stepped forward and put the Thénardiers out of sight and mostly out of mind.

The rest of the night was an emotionally taxing blur. The man explained that he was her foster father, and that he was in the process of adopting her. He brought her home for a nice, hot tubby and gave her pretty clean clothes and tried to help her braid her hair, but he messed it all up so she had to wear it down instead. After a nice hot meal they went to the hospital where she sat with her mother and sang until Fantine lost her breath. Then they just sat together, and Cosette tried not to cry, because even though she was young she could sense that this was an ending, and she didn’t want it to end with her in tears.

Cosette’s first Christmas with Jean Valjean was the most beautiful, painful, exhilarating memory she had. He’d given her the greatest gifts she’d received; not just the doll, lovely though it was, but freedom, love, care, and the chance to say goodbye to her mother.

Years later, when she shared this most emotional of memories with her boyfriend, she observed him turn white as a sheet while a fine sheen of sweat formed on his brow. “Marius, darling, is everything alright?”

“Oh…yes. Of course, love. Perfectly fine in every way. Merry Christmas.”

She couldn’t fathom what was going through that pretty head of his, but Cosette kissed her dreamy boy until a smile quirked his lips, knowing well how to handle him and his “thoughtful” spells. Once he was safely out of his head and back to earth with her, they finished out their date in good enough holiday cheer.

And that night, when Marius got back to Courfeyrac’s, where he and some of the other guys were spending Christmas, he had a silent panic attack over the prospect of competing with Jean Valjean over Cosette’s Christmas memories.


End file.
